


Appendicitis

by gemstone1234



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Appendicitis, Fever, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, John is a Very Good Doctor, Pain, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-08
Updated: 2013-10-21
Packaged: 2017-12-28 19:14:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/995523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gemstone1234/pseuds/gemstone1234
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pretty much what it says on the tin. Sherlock gets appendicitis, it's not really going to end well. Sorry, I'm not great at summaries.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Appendicitis  
Chapter 1

The cool autumn wind danced through the air causing each of the small group shudder with the sudden chill, the woman’s hair was blown into disarray, causing her to scrape it backwards desperately in an attempt to maintain her vision, and the tall man’s coat billowed behind him, seemingly having a life of its own. Suddenly a gust of wind blew harshly through the browning leaves on the tall sycamore tree. A few of the more withered leaves spiralled down and eventually came to rest on the silent, but not peaceful looking corpse. A bony hand, belonging to the tall man of the group instantly swept them off in frustration.

“Was my presence really necessary on this case Lestrade?” asked Sherlock in a bitter tone.  
“Well, do enlighten us to what we have missed then.” The detective let out an exaggerated tone.  
“And there was me thinking that Scotland Yard was supposed to be good at their jobs, this one is so simple even John could have figured it out given the length of time you’ve had, and he’s received no training.” The doctor, whose eyes had been transfixed on the wide and obviously terrified eyes of the victim, looked up upon hearing his name. Unsure of whether he was supposed to feel insulted or complimented he fought to maintain his face in a neutral expression as Sherlock continued with his spiel.

“Just start off with what he is wearing, a three piece suit, designer clothing. He’s obviously well off to be able to afford that. The briefcase and the laptop indicate that he was most likely a lawyer before he… transpired.” There was a sudden pause in which the lanky detective took in a slight, sharp gasp and his hand twitched as if it wanted to move towards his abdomen. His gasp wasn’t his usual I’ve suddenly realised an important detail which will allow me to solve a case. This was something completely different all together, something nobody could place. Everyone looked at him in confusion except John; John looked at him with concern.

After only a moment Sherlock continued, increasing his previously rapid pace and his normally passive face had been contorted into a slight grimace and his pale complexion had become impossibly whiter. “He was not killed by a simple mugger who wanted to get his hands on the man’s expensive possessions since everything of value is still on him, meaning that the murderer knew him. If you look, on his ring finger, there is a band of pale skin, where a wedding ring used to be. The white skin is fairly prominent, so the divorce happened recently, no more than six months ago. An angry ex-wife is looking pretty promising then but not necessarily. He has a girlfriend; she was probably the cause of the divorce in the first place. You can still smell the faint scent of female perfume on him. However, the most important detail we can gain from his person is the fact that he had children. There’s a small fingerprint of jam under his collar from where he picked up his child to say goodbye in the morning and they grabbed his collar. He is a lawyer; during the divorce he would have been able to pull some strings to make sure he got custody of the children, a promising motive for murder. There is one last thing though, the footprints. It did not rain last night, and even though you lot have trampled all over them, if you step back about ten metres you can see the distinctive evidence of high heels walking to and from his dead body and there is the occasional drop of blood from where it dropped from the knife he was stabbed with.”

Sherlock turned to head back towards the main road and John hurried after him. “Check his wallet, find out who he is and then arrest his ex-wife,” Sherlock shouted over his shoulder.  
“That was amazing,” John muttered under his breath. The detective obviously heard him because a small, but oddly pained smile played at the corners of his lips. Once they reached the road a taxi seemed to materialise as Sherlock held up a shaking hand to hail it.

Once they were in the taxi, heading towards Baker Street, John took a moment to look at Sherlock properly in doctor mode. The man was sitting in silence, facing away from his friend, with his forehead pressed against the cool glass. From the position he was in it was hard to tell if anything was wrong because he could hardly see the detective’s face. However, he could see the slight tremors rippling through his body and the fact his long arms were wrapped around his abdomen. He probably just needs some sleep; he’s been pretty frantic the last few days with the lack of cases. He hasn’t slept in at least three days and hasn’t eaten in at least two days. I’ll see what I can do when we get back. John knew that there was definitely wrong when, by the end of the cab journey, Sherlock still hadn’t noticed that he’d been staring. 

***  
Under normal circumstances Sherlock would bound up the stairs, as if he were eager to show off his agility, and John would follow him at a more leisurely pace. This time was different; he plodded slowly up the stairs, wavering when he lifted his foot to make it onto the next step. John, who had waited behind to pay the cabbie, was actually held up on the last three steps because Sherlock had taken them so slowly, something definitely was up. The door to their flat swung open and the two men stepped inside; the detective began to slowly make his way straight to his room. “Hey Sherlock, are you alright mate?” John asked, realising this could be the only chance he got to ask.  
“Fine,” replied Sherlock without stopping, still managing to inject some bitterness into his tone despite his not feeling brilliant. This time John decided not to pursue the subject, as the bedroom door slammed he shouted, knowing the detective would hear him. “Please try and get some sleep Sherlock.”

***  
The moment that the door had closed behind him he collapsed onto his bed, suppressing a moan of pain, it would not do for John to know how much pain he was in. It was his abdomen, he’d started the day with a dull ache but then, suddenly, during the case and in front of everyone it had become sharp and unbearable. Of course, he had tried to carry on as normal but he had seen the concerned look in his friend’s eyes. He hated that look, it was about the only thing that could make Sherlock feel guilty, he didn’t enjoy worrying John. And he knew that he should probably tell John since he was his friend and a doctor but he couldn’t bring himself to, it would probably pass in a few days anyway. 

He had barely managed to finish taking the yarders through who had murdered the lawyer, the waves of pain had been growing in intensity causing his body to shake horribly. It had been lucky that a cab had arrived so quickly too, or else he probably would have collapsed there and then, in full view of everyone and John would have been worried. A feeling of nausea shuddered through his body, causing him to draw he knees up towards his body and he whimpered quietly, desperately wanting to keep the bile down. There was no food in his stomach to bring up, just tea. 

John had ordered him to sleep, he didn’t need sleep, he was Sherlock Holmes and he ran purely on tea and the thrill of the chase. But perhaps, just this once, he would adhere to John’s request, he didn’t want to worry John. Anyway, if he slept for a few hours then the dreadful pain would probably have passed leaving him ready for an interesting case or, when failing that, for an experiment or two. 

***  
It had been two hours since they had returned from the case and two hours since he had heard anything from Sherlock. John glanced concernedly towards his best friend’s room; hopefully he was getting the much needed sleep the doctor had ordered him to get. John was meeting a woman for lunch, she was new and worked in the surgery he worked in, she was on admin and her name was Rachel. What he didn’t tell her was that he had absolutely hated that name since his first case with Sherlock. 

Gently he knocked on Sherlock’s door. “Are you alright Sherlock?” he asked loud enough for Sherlock to hear if he was awake but not loud enough to wake him if he was asleep. There was no reply so John hurriedly scribbled down a quick note telling Sherlock where he had gone and to get something to eat when he was up.

***  
Despite his out of character desire to sleep Sherlock did not find refuge from the pain in slumber. In fact pain was the reason he could not sleep in the first place. He was vaguely aware of John talking to him but the raging agony which blazed in the lower part of his stomach addled his mind and it was too difficult to form an understandable sentence so he didn’t bother, he just lay there. Then he heard the door closing behind John and was with it just enough to realise John had left.

It was at this point Sherlock lost all resolve to repress anything and lay, curled up on his bed, moaning and whimpering loudly as the relentless waves of anguish plagued him without consideration or compassion. He was beginning to shiver slightly, feeling inexplicably cold even though the heating in the flat had been on all day. Suddenly an overwhelming feeling of nausea washed over him without warning and he just ended up retching up a foul concoction of bile and tea onto the duvet next to him. It left him exhausted and he panted for breath. After a few minutes he either dropped off to sleep or fell unconscious, he was unsure of which it was.

Upon reawakening Sherlock felt impossibly worse. The pain in his abdomen was now so severe it was making it nigh on impossible for him to breathe. And the nausea was getting worse, not aided by the vomit which was lying inches from his face but he had been unable to do anything about it. He had a temperature too and, judging by the way all the colours in the room were blending together, it was quite a high one. But he was thirsty and that was his primary concern. It wasn’t that he was slightly thirsty so he could ignore it; he was severely dehydrated probably because of the fever he was running. His throat felt as if it was on fire, his tongue felt swollen and sore and his lips were cracked. He couldn’t bear it anymore. Slowly, he sat up to avoid losing consciousness and bit back a yelp as his abdomen protested against his movements, the pain causing him to nearly fall back onto his bed. He must have bitten harder than he had thought as the bitter taste of blood filled his mouth and he gagged.

The next stage was to actually stand up, and he knew this would be difficult so he sat there while the blur of colours shimmered before his eyes, before he knew it he was gagging once again, spitting the foul mixture that came out his mouth onto the floor. Deciding it was time he stood up, his abdomen screaming at him to stop, and then he took a step. This was too much for him to handle and he collapsed to the floor with a small scream of agony. He was not unconscious but he was walking the fine line between consciousness and unconsciousness. In the knowledge that he would not be able to get up again he called out weakly for John, feeling betrayed when his friend did not run through the door. In a desperate attempt to ease the throbbing in his abdomen and to retain some body heat he curled up in a foetal position where he lay, feebly repeating John’s name over and over again.

***  
The date had gone well, for a first date. They’d had a late lunch, gone for a walk in the park, gone to see a film and then had dinner too. He walked her to her door, arranged to go on another date in a week at the same time and they had kissed goodnight. John was happy, that was one date that Sherlock had not managed to ruin. As he walked through the door he was struck by how silent the flat was, it was calm, something most people were so accustomed too but something that never happened in 221b Baker Street. In fact, it was something worth worrying about and worry John did, especially when he saw his note, unmoved from where he had left it.

Tentatively John knocked on the door, more firmly than before and called his friend’s name loudly.  
“John?” It came out more as a strangled cry of agony than anything else and John burst into the room and was horrified at what he was met with. The great Sherlock Holmes was lying, curled up on the floor, moaning in agony. His big coat was tightly wrapped around his shivering form. A thin sheen of sweat and grime had formed on his forehead, his hair was matted down to his head and he was shivering violently. His face was a sickly shade of white and green and his eyes were bloodshot and pained.

The doctor in him suddenly came into play and he rushed to Sherlock’s side. “What’s wrong Sherlock?” he asked, not allowing himself to panic but he grabbed Sherlock’s chin and pointed his face to look at him, to make sure he paid attention.  
“Pr’mise not be w’rried?” he slurred.  
“Promise,” John replied calmly.  
“Mm sore.”  
“I know,” he soothed, smoothing the hair out of his face. “I need you to tell me where though so I can make it better.” Instead of replying the detective let out a loud whimper and clasped tightly onto his stomach.

Gently John began to coax Sherlock’s hands away from his abdomen, removed the coat and jacket and proceeded to undo his friend’s beloved purple shirt. He had descended into constant moaning, unconscious of everything except the pain which ravaged him. Ribs which far too prominent for John’s liking shuddered in the attempt to breathe painlessly and his whole body was covered in sweat. Gently John began to probe Sherlock’s stomach, and suddenly, when he reached the lower right side he let out a scream of pain. John’s eyes widened in sudden realisation and he grabbed his phone, dialling 999.

Quickly he explained the situation and that he was sure Sherlock’s appendix had ruptured. Things happened very quickly after that, it all passed in a blur. The paramedics arrived and he told them he was Sherlock’s brother so he got to ride in the ambulance with him. Then he was at the hospital waiting, waiting for any news. Then Mycroft, Lestrade, Molly and Mrs Hudson were there waiting with him, nobody said a word, not even the customary greetings. Finally a nurse came through and confirmed what John had thought, Sherlock’s appendix had burst and that he had just finished in surgery. She warned them that even though the surgery had been successful he was a huge risk of infection and recovery would take a long time. John simply stood there and nodded while Mycroft asked questions that John already knew the answer to because he is a doctor after all. Finally they were allowed in to see him; there were tubes which didn’t look right coming out of Sherlock, tubes needed to drain fluid which had built up from the infection. It looked all wrong. And his skin looked pale against the white hospital sheets but his steady breathing and the beeping of the heart monitor was reassuring. Then they were all sitting down, John was holding Sherlock’s hand, eagerly awaiting the moment his eyes would flutter indicating he was about to wake up.


	2. Recovery

“What the hell happened?” his groggy mind demanded of him. For once, he could not answer. Noises surrounded him, blurring together to form one indecipherable mass of sound. The area just to the right of his belly button was throbbing with a dull pain. His mind was slow, he could not decipher information at lightening pace and he hated it. Is this how normal people feel all the time? Knowing that they should know something but not quite being able to grasp it, like now, he recognised the sharp smell which was invading his nostrils, but he could not for the life of him remember what it was. But then again, memories can be triggered by smells, and he remembers smelling this before. Had he overdosed again? No, that wasn’t right, he was clean, had been for some time now. John would be angry.

Something flashed into his mind, lying on the floor in his bedroom, writhing in pain as John probed his stomach, how shameful. Involuntarily, he let out a groan feeling embarrassed and just slightly humiliated. This triggered a response which he had not been anticipating, forcing him, reluctant as he was, to open his eyes out of surprise and curiosity. There was a sudden loss of pressure on his left hand, pressure which he had not noticed so he must be in a bad shape, and it felt cool. “Sherlock is your pain medication not high enough. Are you still in pain? I-I can go and get your doctor so he can increase your dosage if you want.” The detective opened his eyes in time to see Mycroft as he laid a hand on his friend’s shoulder. The doctor looked up at him, their eyes met for a second, John took a deep breath and then turned back to look at Sherlock.

“How’re you feeling mate?” John asked, worry evident in his kind eyes.  
“Jus’ dandy,” he slurred, still feeling a little groggy from the anaesthetic. “That’s why-m ‘ere.” Instantly he regretted his words, they’d been said with more bite than he intended but apparently to his audience they didn’t seem too scathing, probably due to his inability form intelligible words. Sherlock sighed, already feeling tired but unwilling to drop off again, at least not so soon. “Wha’ ‘appened?” he asked closing his eyes and then quickly forcing them open again, as if shutting them had not been his doing.  
“You managed to get a pretty nasty case of appendicitis,” John answered in as light a hearted tone as possible. “It burst and I found you collapsed on your bedroom floor, I called an ambulance and you had to get emergency surgery.” The detective nodded, it at least explained the pain, there was a gentle pat on his legs and he prized open his eyes, which he’d unwittingly shut once again, and glared at his older brother, Mycroft knew full well he hated it when he touched him. “Sleep brother,” he said giving a weak smile, devoid of any of its usual malice. And, for once, Sherlock thought that he might comply.  
The next time he awoke it was just John, Lestrade and Mrs Hudson sitting at his bedside. He was feeling a little better, in a way anyway, the effects of the anaesthesia had appeared to wear off considerably and his mind no longer felt like it belonged to a normal human being. Unfortunately the effects didn’t seem gone completely, there was a horrible sickly feeling welling up in the pit of his stomach. “Welcome back dear,” he heard the gentle voice of Mrs Hudson say as her soft hand brushed the matted curls out of his face tenderly.   
“I didn’t go anywhere Mrs Hudson.” John smiled at this, unsure of whether Sherlock was being serious or not, it sometimes was very hard to tell with him. His speech was much better now, much more coherent. He’d been pretty hard to understand when he woke up two hours ago.   
“It’s good to have you back with us,” commented Lestrade.  
“I hate to repeat myself detective inspector but I did not go anywhere.”

Oh, thought John, so he wasn’t joking. “I don’t think that’s what they were meaning Sherlock but that’s beside the point. Try not to get too worked up will you, your heart rate is still a little higher than I’d like it to be.” The detective shot him a glare but John ignored him and carried on. “How’re you feeling?”  
“Oh, like someone has cut me open, cut out a piece of my insides and then stitched me back together again.” This time he was smiling and John smiled back at him, glad that he was acting ‘normally’. However, he must still be feeling bad, John mused to himself, he isn’t yet complaining of boredom or trying to leave the hospital.

There was the sound of a tray clattering and then two nurses carrying said tray appeared, a doctor following them close behind.  
“It’s good to see you awake Mr Holmes,” commented the doctor smiling. “I’m Dr Franklin. Do you think you can give some food a go?” Sherlock shook his head firmly, glaring at the doctor. “Just try a bit, it’s not solid food, if it goes down ok we can move you onto solid food tomorrow.” Once again Sherlock shook his head but the doctor ignored him, nodding to the two nurses. The first laid the tray on the table next to him, one glace at its contents made the nauseous feeling in his stomach treble in intensity. The second nurse began pressing the buttons on the side of the bed, raising the back up. The detective began trying to swat her hands away from the controls but one look from John stopped him. Once he was upright Sherlock’s eyes fluttered between the three strangers which were surrounding him. His lips began to twitch into a small smile and John groaned; he recognised that look far too well, as did Lestrade and Mrs Hudson.

“I never did understand it,” he commented casually.  
“Understand what?” Dr Franklin asked curiously.  
“Don’t ask!” John, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade practically shouted at the same time but it was too late.  
“Why people sleep with their colleagues, even if they are married. You two,” he said pointing at the doctor and the shorter of the two nurses, “Have been sleeping with each other for the last six months and you are both married. And you,” he said pointing at the other nurse. “It will be easier if you just accept your son’s girlfriend. She may well be a bad influence but you know it won’t last long, you may as well let them both enjoy it while it lasts.”  
“What- how..?” stammered both the nurses. Lestrade was resting his head in his hand.  
“Yes Mr Holmes,” said the doctor between gritted teeth, fighting to maintain composure. “Now you have demonstrated that you are very clever please demonstrate that you can eat.”

Briefly the detective glanced towards his tray and then back up towards the doctor. “No.”  
“Mr Holmes…”   
“No!” Sherlock shouted this time, startling everyone in the room, even John, who could tell that the outburst was coming. He sank back into the sheets, closing his eyes, his little outburst having worn him out completely, and his doctor, his real doctor not this imbecile who insulted his friend merely by having the same title as him, glanced warily up towards his blood pressure and heart rate.

“Dr Franklin, I think that we will have more success if you lot leave us be. He doesn’t overly like strangers.”  
“No, I can’t, there’s been a special request to monitor him closely.”  
“Yes, and I am a doctor, I am capable of monitoring him just fine. Be assured, if there is a problem then I will notify you immediately.” John began to turn to face Sherlock once again.  
“But…”  
“Is there a problem?” he asked casually, turning back to face the man.”  
“Well yes…”  
“Because if there is then I could phone his brother, I’m sure he’ll be able to settle things for you,” John threatened, knowing Mycroft had already had some influence on the staff in the hospital considering the private room Sherlock had been put in. It really was amazing how quickly they could move when given proper motivation.

“Thanks,” muttered Sherlock, still lying with his eyes closed.  
“Who knew, Mycroft does have his uses.” Sherlock’s lip quirked slightly at the side and Mrs Hudson tried, and failed, to stifle a giggle. “Seriously though, are you alright mate?”  
“Hmm?”  
“How do you feel, be honest with me.”  
“Sick.” John nodded in understanding.  
“It’s probably just the last of the anaesthesia wearing off but we’ll keep an eye on it just in case anything further does develop.” Sherlock nodded, his eyes still firmly shut.  
“Now, I know this isn’t what you want to hear but it really would help if you at least tried to eat something.” Sherlock shook his head.  
“Well, maybe we should think of this logically then,” interrupted Lestrade when he saw John probably wouldn’t get anywhere with him either. “If you eat it’ll provide you with the energy you need to heal. The faster you heal the sooner you’ll be able to work on cases. Therefore, the more you eat the sooner I’ll let you back onto crime scenes.

The detective opened his eyes and glared at everyone in the room, trying to intimidate at least one of them. Unfortunately they all knew him too well and where able to stand their ground. “Fine,” he stated eventually. “If it’ll stop your nagging then I’ll eat this rubbish that they try to pass for food. It looks like someone has already regurgitated it.”  
***

It was half an hour later John found himself sitting next to a very unwell Sherlock. The moment he saw that he was about to be sick he had instructed Mrs Hudson and Lestrade to wait outside knowing his friend would rather have as few people as possible seeing him in such a state. He’d paled, dramatically, it was quite impressive really, and had placed his liquid ‘food’ on the tray next to him with a shaky hand. Then John had been there, thrusting a vomit pan into Sherlock’s hands then rubbing his back gently and reassuringly, making sure Sherlock was constantly aware of his presence. His thin frame shuddered violently under John’s hands as his body tortured him, desperate to wring any and all the sustenance from within him. The hospital gown had opened slightly at the back, the man’s white skin was covered in sweat and he could see all the bones moving jerkily as he began to dry heave. John felt truly sorry for the detective when he’d finally finished. He looked so young and vulnerable, lying back on the mattress, eyes closed tightly as pain from the surgical wound seized him. Sweat was forming small beads and flowed silently down his brow. He was shaking, either from a chill or from pain, John could not tell, and he was gasping for breath, exhausted from his bout of sickness.

Wordlessly John removed the vomit pan from Sherlock’s feeble grip and disposed of it, allowing Sherlock a moment of peace to collect himself. Equally as quietly he opened the door and stuck his head out the room so he could see Lestrade and Mrs Hudson. “He’s finished throwing up, he’s pretty exhausted now so I think he’ll be going back to sleep very soon. Could one of you fetch me a couple of cups of water? Cheers.” With that the doctor slipped back through the door and into the room, shutting the door as gently as possible behind him.

The detective looked lost in the sheets adding to the child-like demeanour he seemed to possess when he was ill. “How’re you feeling now mate?” John asked tenderly. Sherlock sent him his ‘don’t be an idiot look’ which was merely a shadow of what it normally was, this one carried next to no venom and even Anderson would have been able to shake it off. “I know it sounds like a stupid question but I do need to know, it’ll help monitor your progress. So I’ll rephrase it for you, do you feel any discomfort, in any way, that you feel you should not be feeling after this procedure?” The detective nodded, still breathing heavily from his experience. “In what way?”  
“I’m in pain John.” John sighed, silently collecting himself. It was entirely possible that it would be easier to extract national secrets from a trained spy than to get his friend to discuss his own weaknesses.  
“As you yourself would put it Sherlock, give me data. It would be foolish for me to theorise without all of the relevant facts.”

This brought a small smile to Sherlock’s lips, the smile people only got to see if they were around when his guard was down. Obviously this meant John was usually the only one to get a glimpse but sometime Mrs Hudson and Lestrade were privy to it too. But this seemed to get through to Sherlock as he was a little more forthcoming with information. “My lower right quadrant of my abdomen is painful,” he managed to say before he let out a loud groan. Trust him to use the technical language John mused to himself but he nodded in understanding.  
“That’s probably just pain caused by the surgical wound and too low a dose of painkillers. I’ll see if I can get your dosages increased for you.” However the sick man shook his head and the doctor looked at him curiously.  
“It’s more,” he stated quietly, beginning to drift off as exhaustion began to run its course.

There was a gentle pat at the door and the sound of Mrs Hudson’s distinctive ‘yoo-hoo’.   
“I’ll take a look at it in a minute Sherlock, that’ll be Mrs Hudson now with your water.” He opened the door to a concerned looking Lestrade and Mrs Hudson.  
“Is he alright?” asked the DI, worry permeating his voice.  
“Ah, I don’t know in all honesty. He’s in a lot of pain, he may not have strong enough pain killers or there might be an infection setting in, I am desperately hoping that it is the former.”  
“Here you go dear,” said Mrs Hudson kindly, handing over the water. “If you need a hand with anything just give us a shout, we’ll just be out here.”  
“Thanks Mrs Hudson. He should be settled down soon so I’ll give you a shout when you can come back in.” With that he disappeared back into the hospital room, the landlady and the DI shot each other concerned looks.

Upon his return Dr Watson had to shake his friend awake. “Sherlock, I know you’re tired but bear with me a couple more minutes and then you can sleep.” John felt really guilty; he was talking to Sherlock Holmes like a five year old. Even when Sherlock was five he probably wasn’t talked to like that. And the worst part of the whole situation was that he didn’t seem to care, this great man with the genius level intellect was being treated like an infant by his best friend and he didn’t seem to even notice. The thought made John shudder. “After that amount of throwing up your mouth must taste disgusting. Take the water, slosh it round your mouth and spit it out again.” He obeyed, all be it slowly, his mind seemed to be somewhere else and he was only vaguely aware of what was going on around him. “Ok, this one is for drinking.” Sherlock nodded and began to drink without even thinking, John felt unnerved by the recent lack of belittling comments.

Eventually Sherlock had drunk half the water and had apparently decided that was quite enough and just sat there with it. It took John a few minutes to realise he was done. It didn’t take long for him to get his friend settled back in a horizontal position. “I’m just going to check where you’re hurting, just to make sure there’s nothing too horrible going on.” There was a faint head movement that John took to mean yes so he pulled up the gown to look. The incision looked a bit red and inflamed but Sherlock was on mild antibiotics which would take care of any bacteria which had got in there. However, when John put slight pressure on his abdomen, a fair distance from the surgical site, Sherlock let out a yelp of pain. “Hey, shh, it’s ok,” soothed John habitually whereas his mind was screaming at him that this was looking a bit not good. He tried a couple more times, in different areas but he was sure now. Infection.

He forced himself to compose himself calmly, knowing that if he began to panic it would do no good for anyone concerned. He flicked through the chart to check what antibiotics Sherlock was on and then headed out to speak to the doctor. “I’ll see you soon Sherlock,” he said before leaving. “Mrs Hudson and Lestrade will be in here if you need anything. 

“Please tell me dear, is he alright?” Mrs Hudson asked as soon as he walked out the door.  
“He’s contracted an infection; I’m going to discuss it with his doctor now, could you two watch him for me?” They both nodded and took up John’s post, at Sherlock’s side. It didn’t take long to find the doctor, he was writing something at the nurse’s station, chatting to the two nurses who had come into Sherlock’s room with him. “Excuse me Dr Franklin,” interrupted John politely.  
“How can I help?” he asked, recognising him instantly.  
“Sherlock has caught an abdominal infection. It would be good if you could prescribe some stronger pain killers, antibiotics and order a blood test.

The man’s massive eyebrows rose as he scrutinised John. “I’ll bear that in mind but you will have to wait until I do my rounds in a couple of hours’ time, or if the nurse sees anything when she goes to take his vital signs then she can call me.”  
“I’m sorry, what?” demanded John, practically bristling with anger.  
“I’m sorry Dr Watson, I’m really busy right now but I will review the situation.”

At this John stalked off, already fed up with the doctor’s incompetence. He went to stand outside, enjoying the fresh air and he pulled the phone out of his pocket. 

A few minutes later he returned into the hospital and was passing the nurse’s station when the doctor grabbed his arm. “I had a spare moment Dr Watson,” he stated hurriedly whilst scribbling down a couple of prescriptions. “I have reviewed your friend’s condition, I believe he may have contracted peritonitis but we’ll have to get some blood tests done and wait for the results before we know for sure. Until then I am prescribing some stronger antibiotics and pain killers.”  
“Thank you.” As John walked out of sight of the doctor he allowed himself the small luxury of a smile which soon turned into a frown when he considered Sherlock’s situation. Mycroft certainly did have his uses after all.


End file.
